


Amnesia

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [11]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Homophobic Language, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 19:36:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19184263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: When John endangers himself in an ill-planned skirmish, he isn't the only one who suffers.





	Amnesia

 

{{“ _Mon amour_ , you need to relax.”}} Lafayette recommends, holding Hercules back by force, pushing the tailor back into the lobby. The concerned expressions on the nurses’ faces abate, reassured by the Marquis that any need for armed security is unnecessary.

“Nobody will tell me what happened, Gil. What the fuck, is he okay?”

{{“Come with me.”}} Lafayette tilts his neck, gesturing to an enclosed area one hundred meters away from the hospital lobby. When Hercules hesitates, Laf grabs his hands and all but drags Hercules after him. His movements are lethargic, supported only by caffeine and pure adrenaline.

“I have the best doctors on call; he just got out of surgery.” Laf explains, closing the door behind Hercules. Sealed off from public view, the room falls silent, clock in the corner being the sole accompaniment to the tense atmosphere.

 

“Why didn't you _call_ _me_?” Hercules seethes, hands moving of his own accord for the first time, fists grabbing tightly at Gilbert's cravat and yanking him forward.

“Hercules, I know how important your work is to you, how important your thesis is. You would have stayed here for nothing.”

“You think I give a shit about school when John's in emergency surgery?”

“I'm sorry,” Lafayette says softly, wrapping his hands around Herc's fists. He meets Herc's gaze, and Herc falters. “I know you probably don't believe me, I mean… I fucking stabbed him! But I swear I haven't left his side.”

Hercules loosens his grip, biting his bottom lip. Laf's eyes are dry and bloodshot, watering from the harsh fluorescent lights which flicker above them.

“I know how much you love him. I've been here for nine hours; if he woke up, I didn't want him to be scared or alone.” Lafayette pulls at Herc's grip, releasing his collar. “I just… I know what he means to you.”

Hercules engulfs the Marquis in a bear hug, heart pounding through his chest as he clings to Laf for dear life. “It's our anniversary, Gil.”

“He's okay, I promise you.” Lafayette soothes, “The doctors have stabilized him and the surgery was a success.”

 

* * *

 

Hercules taps his foot anxiously, watching as Laurens lays lifeless. The heart rate monitor's visual representation is the most apparent indication that John is alive. The hospital gown is thankfully modest, sparing Hercules from witnessing the carnage that can result from bullets tearing through organs and bone.

His hand cradles John's and his heart lurches. John isn't ever this quiet. This frail man isn't John Laurens. Not by a long shot.

 

“Would you like some privacy?” Lafayette asks. He and Hercules may not be together anymore, but there's still some weird misconstruction of love between them. A begrudging friendship and what could have been. Hercules is unexpectedly composed. If it had been Gil, if Alex had been lying in that bed, there would be wailing and lamenting on the front steps. Gilbert might not have been able to make it inside the room.

“No, it's fine.” Hercules blinks the tears from his eyes. “But you should go home and rest; you've been here all night. Thank you for staying. Seriously. You don't know how much it means to me.”

“I-it was the least I could do.” Lafayette stutters, overcome with emotion. Hercules is taken aback. In all the years he's known Lafayette, he hasn't once stuttered. Stumbled over an idiom or two, definitely, but Hercules cannot recall even one instance where _Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, le Marquis de Lafayette_ has **ever** stuttered. “You want me to bring you some food? Your laptop? Clothes..?”

“N-no. Thank you so much.”

Lafayette turns away so as to hide his distress. “I'll… be back in a couple of hours.”

“I'll call you.” Hercules nods, watching as Laf leaves the way he came.

“I'm starting to think you enjoy scaring me. Huh, Pretty Boy?” Hercules laughs to himself, standing up. He leans over, pressing a kiss to John's temple, smoothing the hair out of his face. Hercules has heard stories about people in comas. And every time, people always said their loved one looked peaceful, like they were just sleeping.

John is far too defiant to settle for _peaceful_. His hair is strewn about, a wild brown shock on his crown; left eye swollen shut, purple and red and weeping. His skin is washed-out, and he resembles more paper boy than a battle-hardened soldier with the way his body has atrophied, slowly becoming one with the bed it rests on. But at least he is _alive._

“You even scared Gil, even though he'll never admit it. It's hard to believe that you two ever did something as stupid as duel over me.” Herc laughs to himself, but it stops short, behind his tongue, smothering him. Tears fall unimpeded, soaking into John’s hospital gown.

"Shit, l-look at me, getting you all damp. You know I don't mean to." Hercules wipes his eyes with the back of his palm, as the only answer he receives is the coordinated beep of the machines monitoring his heart rate, breathing, and other vitals. "Can't have you catching a cold, can we?"

Hercules cradles John’s face, watching without expectation as he remains impassive and emotionless.

"I - they, the doctors said that I should keep talking to you, that it could provoke some kind of emotional response. Sometimes unconscious people can sense what's going on. So, if you ever think I'm talking too much, y'know... just... wake up and... tell me to shut the fuck up? I missed you, John. Even the couple hours we were apart. Gilbert called me, and it killed me to know something had happened to you and I wasn't there. I missed my flight; my parents are pissed, because of course they are, but they're surprisingly supportive of your work - to be fair, they never liked the British either.” Hercules rakes a hand through his hair, “This isn't about anything you've done. I just... I felt it. When... I filled with this sense of overwhelming dread, it kicked me in the chest. I wondered what you were thinking. If you thought you would die there…”

Hercules clears his throat in an attempt to stifle the sob. Herc lifts the blanket up to John's chin, then carefully climbs in next to him, clutching the soldier to his chest. Herc can feel John’s heartbeat through his skin and he’s never felt safer.

“Can you just... just wake up. Please... I don't know what to... I don't know! I don't fucking know!"

 

A heavy knock startles Hercules.

"A-are you alright?" a woman asks, gesturing vaguely at the scene in front of her. "I wasn't eavesdropping or anything. But you sound a little distressed." She’s holding a bouquet of flowers, and Herc hones in in a second.

“I'm fine. Just a little bit overwhelmed, I guess. Are those for John?” He asks, pointing to stunning arrangement of sunflowers and roses in her hand.

“I… Yes! I couldn't find any orange flowers; so I figured red roses, yellow sunflowers, orange, y'know?” The woman blushes as though she's been caught off guard. She shuffles in awkwardly, trying not to draw attention to the intimate scene in front of her. She extends her free hand towards Hercules, “I'm Peggy… Schuyler. I'm a friend of John's.”

“It seems I work for your father.” Hercules acknowledges the handshake, but refuses to leave Laurens’s bedside. He gestures to himself. “Hercules Mulligan.”

“Oh, the one and only!” Peggy grins, “The famous boyfriend! Oh, John always blushes when he talks about you.”

“You should throw the sunflowers out.” Hercules’s voice is short, manner curt. “He's allergic.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Peggy goes bright red, skin matching the roses in her hand. “I'm sorry! I didn't know. I just wanted him to have something nice!”

“Calm down, it's okay.” Hercules chuckles, “We appreciate the thought.”

  
“The thought of what?” John groans, body fighting the powerful sedatives in his bloodstream. “Fuck, everything hurts. Paging doctor morphine.”

Peggy is closest to the door, and yells for a doctor first. It only takes a couple of seconds, but when she turns back, Laurens is screaming at the top of his lungs, struggling against the sheer force of Hercules.

“Get off of me! Let me go!”

“You need to relax, or you'll tear your stitches out!” Hercules urges, wrapping his arms around Laurens to stop him moving any further. Laurens, who has never appreciated being told what to do, and starts kicking and thrashing, knocking over an IV and smashing the face of the machine measuring his blood pressure. It doesn't take a genius to know that it's skyrocketing.

Laurens’s eyes are wide when he appeals to the doctor crossing the threshold, armed security forces in tow. “Doc, get him off me, _please_!”

“Sir, let him go. Now.”

Hercules takes one glance at the guns and decides that he does not wish to suffer the same fate that landed John here in the first place. His hands release John, who bolts back to his bed as the adrenaline in his system subsides.

“Now everybody relax.” the doctor commands, allowing the armed police to fall back a few inches. “Mr Laurens, do you know this man?”

“I’ve never seen him before in my goddamn life; I wake up and he’s in bed with me? What kind of operation are you running here, Doc? I’ll fucking sue! I want him arrested!”

Herc’s mouth goes dry. His palms are oozing sweat, too shaky to get a hold on the situation unfolding. His muscles tense when the officer approaches him. His stomach does somersaults as his arms are forced behind his back, handcuffs secured, then tightened, around his wrists. He’s gonna be sick. “This isn’t f-funny.”

“You see me laughing, creep?” John snaps, “I’m not some kind of faggot, alright? Stay the fuck away from me.” 

 

* * *

  
Lafayette is on his way to the hospital the second he gets the notification that Laurens is awake.

“They said he was awake… Where’s Hercules?” he asks, taking account of the four people occupying John’s room, none of which are Hercules. He counts one nurse, one armed guard, a woman who looks like she’s three seconds away from bursting into tears, and an unconscious John Laurens. “Who are you people?”

“You must be the Marquis de Lafayette.” Peggy pipes up, “The accent gives it away.”

“Just _Lafayette_ is fine.”

“They had to sedate him before he ripped his stitches out.” Peggy shifts in her chair. “I’m Peggy, that’s Nic, and the guy with the gun is Ari…”

“And _Hercules?”_ Lafayette pushes, “He is not answering his phone.”

“And Hercules got taken out of here in handcuffs.”

“ _Pourquoi_?”

{{“John didn’t recognize him. Thought he was some kind of attacker.”}}

Laf nods, {{“Where is he now?”}}

“Presumably the county jail..?” Peggy looks to the ceiling, {{“Can you make sure he’s okay, though? He looked absolutely shattered when he left here. John called him all kinds of names, and _jeez,_ poor guy looked on the verge of tears.”}}  


* * *

  
“He doesn’t remember shit.” Hercules wails, head pressed against the steel platform, shoulders shaking as he sobs. “None of it! Didn’t even fucking recognize me!”

“The doctors say it’s temporary. There’s some swelling in his brain, and he’ll regain all his memory when it subsides.” Lafayette sighs. Hercules doesn’t respond to his words, gives no indication that he’s even heard them. The tailor is too busy sobbing into the cold, metallic surface. “Hercul—”

“Did he recognize you?” Herc’s eyes are cold and vacant, staring through Lafayette. It unnerves him more than any battlefield carnage he has borne witness to, and he fights the urge to look away.

“Oui et non.” Laf shifts awkwardly. “He knows I am Major General under Washington, the Marquis de Lafayette. But he does not _know_ me. He fawns over me, like I am some sort of celebrity.”

“That’s nice, Laf.” Hercules murmurs, “So he doesn’t remember you stabbing him.”

“No.” Lafayette runs a hand through his hair, “You have to be patient.”

“That would be easier if I wasn’t in jail.”

“I’m working on that as well, believe me.”  


* * *

* * *

  
“The Marquis said I should give you a chance to explain yourself,” Laurens says, cautiously stepping into the room. He feels surprisingly vulnerable without his service weapon. He hasn’t been cleared for duty, not yet, but even with the doctor’s note, he’d have a hard time bringing a weapon here. He closes the door behind him, leaning against it in an effort to keep some distance between himself and the handcuffed stranger. “So, who are you?”

“My name’s Hercules Mulligan, and we’ve been dating about a year.” Hercules smiles sadly, “I was in that hospital room on our _anniversary_. Why do you make it a habit of getting shot?”

“I don't. But these things happen in wartime.” Laurens frowns, bowing over to press a palm into his side. “Fuck, I… Ow!”

“Are you okay?” Hercules rushes to his feet, but Laurens calls him off, waving a hand.

“F-fine.” Laurens gasps, hobbling across the room to claim the seat opposite Hercules. He all but collapses into the chair, inhalations shallow and harsh.

Hercules wants to comfort Laurens, wants to touch him, but he can't bear to be rejected again, to see the hatred in John's eyes, to shoulder the weight of whatever slurs would fly from his lips.

“I don't date men.” Laurens grits out, “You'll need more to prove your story.”

“I can tell you that your back is covered in scars.”

Laurens tenses, back straight and rigid. “How do I know you didn’t take a peek after climbing into bed with me?”

“Trust me,” Hercules clears his throat, the quiet jangle of his handcuffed wrists doing nothing to substantiate any faith John may place in him. “I can tell you how you got them. Would you like me to?”

“I don't know what the fuck your problem is, bu—”

“I know your father was a shitty drunk. I know that you're gay, John. I know your father tried to beat it out of you, hit you hard enough to scar, and I know that's the reason you hate the smell of citrus and won't ever drink orange juice in the morning. You love peanut butter, and _Jude's Smooth_ makes you do a happy dance.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because my fridge is fucking packed with it! Because I buy it by the caseload. You eat _Jude's_ like it's a food group. You practically live with me. Which is how I know you love it when I pull your hair, that your ears go red when I call you _babygirl_.”

And like magic, John blushes bright red from the tip of his ears, to bottom of his collar until the flushed skin disappears from view, covered by John's crisp white shirt.

Laurens frowns, “that doesn't prove anything. That doesn't prove that you are who you say you are. That doesn't mean I know you.”

“Your middle name is Hugh, after your father.”

“You could've stolen my medical files.”

“You were born in Charleston. You have a brother called Francis and a sister called Adrienne. Your favourite colour is orange.”

“Common knowledge.”

“You hate mushrooms, but can't explain why, so you just say you're allergic. You're _actually_ allergic to sunflowers. You pretend not to like almond milk, but you prefer it to all other kinds.”

“Alright,” Laurens’s reaction is impassive. The soldier is not impressed with this display of knowledge. “What's your point?”

“That I love you and you don't even remember me. I thought that maybe it'd be like the movies. We start dating again and maybe we fall in love all over again, y'know?” Hercules muses aloud, “but your eyes didn't sparkle when you woke up. You looked disgusted. And I thought about just leaving… Just giving up and moving on, I guess..? But you don't give up on someone you love. I won't ever give up on you.”

“I know I love you, okay. It just doesn't make sense.” John huffs, leaning back in his chair. He buries his fingers in his hair, digging into his scalp, tendrils stealing away from their place in his black hair tie. “I don't know how or why, and I don't know _you_. I just know I love you, and I don't understand it. I don’t know you.”

Hercules blinks back tears. “C-can I touch you?”

John's expression tenses for a moment before he nods. Hercules extends his hands, letting the back of his palm grace John's cheek. It's the first time he's had the privilege of touching John since the soldier regained consciousness two days ago. John raises his arm, and captures Herc's hand where it rests.

John's eyes widen in realization. “You sew?”

“Tailor by trade.”

“Your hands are calloused; Momma has the same callouses,” John notes, tilting his head in wonderment, pressing his cheek against the back of Herc's hand. John mutters experimentally, testing the taste of the words on his tongue. “ _I love you_.”

“You don't have to say it.” Hercules shakes his head, “There's time. All the time in the world, babygirl. And I will wait as long as it takes me to get you to understand why we love each other."


End file.
